


Plans Upon Schemes Upon Plots

by Vetashad



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Matchmaking, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Rivalry, i'm sorry these tags don't make sense just wait, oikawa's timeskip info included, ushiten because i couldn't abandon my boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28187655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vetashad/pseuds/Vetashad
Summary: But it came into view soon enough: Oikawa, with his stupid wink and his stupid tongue hanging out of his mouth—and some little second-year girl on his arm, all starry-eyed and blushing. Hajime ground his teeth. Ever since the hormones of puberty had started kicking in, it was like the features of others started to come into sharp relief when he looked at them: toned arms and long legs, skilled hands and capable bodies, voices like honey and eyes that smoldered. Except...when he couldn’t tear his eyes away and his heart thumped painfully in his dry throat, it wasn’t because he was looking at girls—it was when he was looking at guys.It was when he was looking at his best friend.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 16
Kudos: 74
Collections: Haikyuu Secret Santa 2020





	1. Iwaizumi Hajime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majiburger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majiburger/gifts).



> Hi, Xing!! This bad boy is your HQSS gift!! I hope you like it!!!!
> 
> And, some important housekeeping stuff: this fic is in 4 chapters, BUT!! POV changes every chapter!!! I split them up to make it as clear as possible and I've labeled the chapter titles with the name of who's POV it's in so keep an eye out for that!!
> 
> And, as always, don't be afraid to comment and tell me what you think!! Enjoy!!
> 
> Find me on Twitter at [@vetashad](https://twitter.com/vetashad)

“Iwa-chaaaaaan, go like my new post!” Hajime looked up from his phone, noodles dangling from chopsticks already halfway in his mouth. Oikawa was bounding across the cafeteria, weaving between crowded tables and waving his arm, yelling above the din of the room and making a scene as usual, on his way to join him.

“M’why,” Hajime responded, talking around his stuffed mouth as Oikawa flopped down on the bench across from him. He had his lunch with him, too, wrapped up in cloth patterned with little dogs, but evidently he had been held up doing _something_ , otherwise he would have been there with Hajime a few minutes earlier.

Oikawa clapped his phone down on the table, indignant. “ _‘Why’?_ What do you mean ‘why’? You’re my best friend, it’s required by _law_ for you to like my posts!”

“‘S’not,” Hajime said, swallowing, but he switched apps to the site Oikawa had posted on. It wasn’t that Oikawa didn’t get _enough_ attention on his social media—he probably got _too much_ attention—but he would hound after him for days if he didn’t. Hajime took his time, scrolling through his feed, past celebrity trainers posting workout tips, digitized vintage Godzilla movie posters, and concert pictures from his favorite band. Oikawa’s post would show up eventually; there was no need to rush it—and that might give Oikawa the wrong idea.

But it came into view soon enough: Oikawa, with his stupid wink and his stupid tongue hanging out of his mouth—and some little second-year girl on his arm, all starry-eyed and blushing. Hajime ground his teeth. Ever since the hormones of puberty had started kicking in, it was like the features of others started to come into sharp relief when he looked at them: toned arms and long legs, skilled hands and capable bodies, voices like honey and eyes that smoldered. Except...when he couldn’t tear his eyes away and his heart thumped painfully in his dry throat, it wasn’t because he was looking at _girls_ —it was when he was looking at guys.

It was when he was looking at his _best friend_.

His best friend that had had multiple—though short-lived—relationships with girls, his best friend that had female fan clubs that fawned over him at every game, his best friend that would never _look_ at Hajime in the way he looked at _him_.

It made Hajime’s heart twist, but he tapped a like onto the post, despite how it made him bristle. If that was all Oikawa wanted from him, even if Hajime craved so much more, so be it. There wasn’t anything he could do to change how Oikawa was. No amount of watching him from afar, or reminiscing on times when they spent every waking moment together, or silent pleas to the skies. This was Hajime’s fate.

He was _pissed_ about it, but that’s how things were.

“So, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa rested his chin on his hands, elevated by how his elbows were propped on the table in front of him. His gaze, eyes half-closed and teasing, made Hajime’s stomach flip when he looked up from his phone. “How did I look in the picture?”

“Like you need that look smacked off your face.” Hajime punctuated his statement by shoving another bite of his lunch into his mouth. It tasted of dust.

“Hey!” Oikawa spluttered, his chopsticks clattering on the table where he dropped them—but then, something else came over his face; devious opportunity reshaped his expression into what Hajime assumed was an attempt at _sultry_. “Do you want to _do_ something about that look?” he purred.

“Yeah.”

“Like what…?” Oikawa’s eyes burned into Hajime, igniting his rushing blood. _That_ was a look that made desire coil inside of Hajime, even if he didn’t know what lengths it ran to, because he had never been given a chance to chase them down. But he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up his façade of indifference without doing something embarrassing—even if Hajime knew that was _exactly_ what Oikawa wanted. He was playing with his food, and Hajime was just who had fallen prey to Oikawa’s “harmless” little games this time—he didn’t know what they _did_ to him.

But after so many years, Hajime had his defenses. He took another bite of his lunch to buy time to compose himself, chewing languidly before swallowing. “I said I was gonna smack it off your face.”

Oikawa threw his hands in the air, his mask dissipating and exasperated with Hajime’s bluntness. “I give you the perfect opening, and for what?! Nothing!” He hurled his balled-up straw wrapper at Hajime, missing his face by several inches. Hajime shrugged, self-satisfied. He didn’t know what “opening” Oikawa meant, but it was probably something he didn’t want details on. All he knew was that he had kept his secrets under wraps and his face in check, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

Beside Hajime, Hanamaki grumbled, airing his grievances with mapping out carbon fixation pathways under his breath. Hajime smirked. Hanamaki had decided to take an advanced biology class with Hajime and Matsukawa in his final year of high school. He was still undecided on what he wanted to study and thought he might find some passion in the content—but so far, all he had found were vexations.

Matsukawa leaned over, tapping the end of his pen on Hanamaki’s paper. “CAM plants and C4 plants didn’t evolve the same anatomical adaptations.” Hanamaki threw his pencil down and groaned, dropping his face into one hand and shoving an amused Matsukawa away with the other.

“There’s no reason for plants to be this complicated!” Hanamaki protested as he hunched over his desk.

“I’ve finished mine,” Hajime said, trading his paper over Hanamaki’s slumped back for Matsukawa’s to compare answers.

“I should’ve taken physics with Oikawa,” Hanamaki lamented after a moment, reluctantly picking up his pencil again.

Matsukawa snorted. “Trust me, you don’t want that.”

“You’d never hear the end of his ‘it’s illogical to assume all alien lifeforms have the same dependencies on liquid water and the presence of carbon as humans’ talks.” Hajime was sure he had every one of those _rants_ memorized forward and backward from the sheer number of times he had been subjected to them. Hell, he could probably explain the science behind it just as well as Oikawa could. “And,” Hajime ticked off answers on Matsukawa’s paper, “he’d rope you into being his social media slave too.”

Hanamaki grinned, perking up. “So, new post today?”

“Yeah.”

“Another selfie with a member of his _fan club_?” Matsukawa drew his words out knowingly.

“Yeah.” Hajime paused, frustration with his lunchtime encounter growing. “I don’t know _why_ he makes me look at that shit. I couldn’t care less if he had fifty girlfriends, but he feels the need to rub it in _every time_.”

Matsukawa and Hanamaki looked at each other, wide grins spreading across their faces. “Oh, you don’t _care_ , do you?” Hanamaki’s tone was smug.

Hajime fixed them both with a look. “No,” he growled, “I _don’t_.”

Hanamaki turned to Matsukawa, taking on an air of drama. “Issei, he _doesn’t care_. Can you believe that?” Both of them dissolved into raucous laughter, only to be shushed by the girl sitting a row ahead.

“And he always takes this annoying smug tone. Like, I _get_ it. Girls are all over you and you enjoy it because you’re straighter than a ruler. But I don’t _give a shit_.” Hajime ground his pen through his marks, leaving thicker, heavier lines scratched across Matsukawa’s paper.

Truth be told, it _did_ bother Hajime. When he saw Oikawa preening for girls that didn’t— _couldn’t_ —know him half as well as Hajime did, when he went out on dates, when he posted pictures with girls with stars in their eyes—when it wasn’t Hajime that was with him. It was a jealous envy that had been tearing at Hajime’s heart for far too long. One that whispered abuses in his ear day and night. One that he had tried to shut up and shove down with all the ferocity he could muster.

One that he would keep festering inside him like a parasite until it consumed him.


	2. Matsukawa Issei

Issei folded his body over, reaching for one foot in a stretch that pulled all the way up the back of his leg, releasing any tightness from the day’s practice. Issei rather liked the routine they had, the calm after all the activity of volleyball, except _usually_ after-practice stretches were to _relax_ and _unwind_ , but Oikawa was staring daggers into the back of Iwaizumi’s head. And after Iwaizumi’s complaints in biology, Issei knew _why_ Oikawa was acting like that.

Issei laid his head on his shoulder as he stretched, giving a tiny jerk of his head in Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s direction when Takahiro looked at him. _Check out these dumbasses._

Takahiro rolled his eyes. _They’re hopeless._

Issei straightened up with a heavy sigh. The _not_ -couple had resisted efforts to see that they even _liked_ each other the entire time Issei had known them—and not just opportunities set up by himself and Takahiro. It was almost as if they _didn’t_ want to be together, despite obviously pining after each other like they were the subject of some infuriating romance movie. Issei was just about done with how they danced around the issue.

“…is Oikawa mad at Iwaizumi?” Issei’s ears pricked up. Behind him, one of the first years, Kindaichi, was whispering.

“No, you idiot!” And there was the response: a hiss from Kunimi. Then, his voice lowered even further, and Issei had to strain his ears to listen. “They like each other, but they’re so wrapped up in themselves that they can’t see it.”

“Oh,” Kindaichi said, and fell silent. 

But forming in Issei’s mind was a plan—and a lazy smirk on his face. If Iwaizumi and Oikawa wouldn’t listen to their friends that were “ _just trying to set them up_ ,” or their seniors from the years before that “ _needed to pay attention to their college plans_ ,” maybe a couple of first years would do the trick. They were smart kids—mostly—so it wouldn’t be _so_ unlikely that they would notice how the pair felt and _ask_ about it, oh so _innocently_. 

Step one—noticing the dilemma—was already complete. Step two would only take some convincing on Issei’s part.

Issei spun around on his butt where he sat on the waxed wood of the gym, turning to face the two first years as he put his feet together in a butterfly stretch. He put on his best _unassuming senpai_ face before speaking. “So…what are you kids up to? Doing well in your classes?” 

“Uh,” Kindaichi glanced at Kunimi, who stayed silent, “sure?”

Internally, Issei cocked an eyebrow. _Real_ good conversationalists they were. “Good, good. No girlfriends or boyfriends to distract you, right?” Kindaichi’s eyes widened and he flushed slightly, caught in _some_ act—Issei would come back to that later. But the _other_ one…

“No, sir,” Kunimi responded, face neutral. _He_ was going to be the useful one.

“Perfect,” Issei leaned in, “because they make studying _extremely_ difficult. Like, _look_ at Takahiro. Sometimes I’ll just look over at him, and _damn_ , now I’m an hour down and I haven’t finished anything.” Takahiro, facing the opposite direction, reached over and smacked Issei’s arm, much to his amusement. “See? They can make stretching difficult too.” Issei was laying the groundwork, indirectly explaining the situation.

But Kunimi was a calculating little mastermind, Issei knew, and all it took was a little prodding to get him to weigh his options, to turn over the choices he had in his head. Inwardly, Issei’s grin grew wider.

Kunimi tossed his dice. “Is that what Oikawa and Iwaizumi are going through, too?” His voice was cool, casual, _perfect_. He knew they were speaking code, formulating a plan.

Issei chuckled. “Unfortunately, no. They’re just not there yet.”

“So they do like each other?” Kindaichi piped up, eyes wide as he puzzled out the conspiracy.

“Oh, absolutely.” Issei bared his teeth in a pointed grin, and the first years’ eyes steeled. They knew what to do.

* * *

Issei opened his locker, setting his water bottle on the shelf and grabbing his shower supplies, but, _really_ , he was watching and listening behind him. The first years, Issei’s agents, had followed him in, just as he had followed Iwaizumi and Oikawa. Kindaichi was moving a little too stiffly, but Kunimi was a natural.

“What? Do you need something?” Iwaizumi snapped, looking at Oikawa. Oikawa was looking at Iwaizumi yet again, and, though it came more quickly than expected, if it were Issei, he’d take that as the perfect opportunity to enact his plan. He held his breath. He’d just have to hope Kindaichi and Kunimi saw it too.

“No, no, Iwa-chan, I was looking to see if the showers were open. Don’t you worry your pretty little head.” Oikawa snickered.

“‘Pretty little head’? I’m about to—”

Kunimi, ever the polite one, interrupted. “I heard that being _distracted_ by certain people was a sign of a _crush_ , sir.” Issei almost cheered, but he bit it off in favor of bundling his shoes away into his bag.

Oikawa rounded on Kunimi, tone sickly sweet. “Aww, where did you hear that?” A classic intimidation tactic.

But Kunimi held Oikawa’s eyes. “Group of girls that sit behind me in my accounting class. They don’t seem to actually _want_ to be there, so they spend a lot of time talking.” His voice was even; he was walking the tightrope like a professional. This plan, a last ditch effort, may end up being the thing that does it—but Issei would only believe it when it all came to fruition.

Oikawa tittered, taking the upper hand again—and Issei knew this side of him. Takahiro nudged him; he had seen it all before too. “Well, as we know, gossiping girls don’t really _know_ anything, do they?”

“I’m of the same opinion, sir,” Kunimi said—apparently he could play Oikawa’s game too, skillfully executing all the right maneuvers. “But if that’s not the reason, why _were_ you staring at Iwaizumi?”

Oikawa flushed, a small victory for Issei. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” he said, then turned and flounced away to the showers. Iwaizumi shot Kunimi a puzzled look, then shook his head. Issei deflated slightly. It was one thing to set a plan into motion; it was another to watch it be shut down after an early success.

Issei waited until Iwaizumi also made his way to a shower stall before approaching Kunimi. “Well, I have to say, masterfully played.” He clapped Kunimi’s shoulder. “Didn’t accomplish what we wanted right away, but it sure was a good show.”

“Definitely got under his skin,” Takahiro said.

Issei nodded in agreement, then sighed. “Welcome to an ongoing effort, though. Don’t feel bad. We’ve been trying to do this for three years now. We’ll get them. One day.”


	3. Hanamaki Takahiro

“Babe,” Takahiro pushed through the door of their favorite boba shop, one down the street from school with robin egg blue tiles on the floor, an outdoor seating area, and wide windows for the storefront, Issei and the tinkle of the bell trailing in his wake, “we have to get those two idiots together before we graduate. Every time I look at them, they’re giving each other heart eyes and it’s _killing_ me.”

They had headed there directly after practice, so afternoon sun poured in, warming Takahiro’s back as he stood, waiting in the sleepy atmosphere of the shop. Issei took his place in line at Takahiro’s side, looking up at the menu mounted on the wall above the counter as he spoke. “I know. After today, I’m thoroughly convinced they have some sort of blindness that’s specific to each other.” 

Takahiro laughed, bumping Issei’s shoulder with his own. “Jeez, yeah, and it’s chronic.”

“So obviously getting the first years to point out their _condition_ didn’t work, so we’ll have to try something else.” Issei crossed his arms over his chest, simultaneously opening the floodgates to brainstorm a perfect get-together and choosing a drink from the menu. Takahiro grinned; he thought it was cute that Issei always stared at the menu every time they came, only to get the same coffee milk tea every time. 

“Nope.” Takahiro had already decided on a lychee punch with mango boba, so he committed his mind to his unfortunate teammates, tapping his chin. “How about the classic ‘shove them in a closet together’?”

Issei shot him a sidelong glance. “Didn’t our seniors try that last year? And it obviously didn’t work.”

“Shit. You’re right.” Takahiro snickered, remembering how both of their rather _strong-willed_ friends had reacted. “Didn’t they both come out with bruises because they kept elbowing each other in the ribs?” 

“Yeah.” Issei smirked. Following that incident, practice had been disrupted for the then-second years, partly because Oikawa and Iwaizumi did a number on each other fighting for their “fair share” of space in the broom closet, partly because Takahiro and Issei couldn’t prevent themselves from laughing every time either of them so much as winced. It had been a fun week for the two, filled with bruise- and closet-themed jokes.

“Hm. Oh!” Takahiro jabbed a finger into Issei’s shoulder. “You know my friend from math class last year? I think if we asked her, she or her girlfriend would be down to stage a confession—”

“It’d have to be to Iwaizumi,” Issei interrupted, “because Oikawa gets confessions all the time.”

“Yeah, that works.” Takahiro waved a hand, stepping ahead to face Issei as they moved forward in line. “So they’ll stage a confession to Iwaizumi where Oikawa can see it, he gets jealous, hopefully figures out it’s because he likes his _dear Hajime_ and not because he wants all the attention to himself, confronts Iwaizumi, they kiss, happily ever after.” Takahiro spread his hands, then turned to the counter as the person in front of them paid.

“You forgot the inevitable yelling match, but yeah.” Their conversation halted momentarily as they moved up to the counter to order—Issei got the coffee milk tea, just as Takahiro suspected he would—but resumed as they moved off to the side to wait for their drinks.

“Other than that, it’s perfect.” Takahiro grinned.

“Okay, so how do we prevent Oikawa from decking your friend or her girlfriend? Or,” Issei’s thick eyebrows knit together, “better yet, how do we prevent him from also knowing about them dating already and knowing that the confession is a set-up?” Oikawa was notorious for _knowing_ people, having struck up conversations with anyone that would listen, charming them during classes, lunch, passing period, any time he could, like the high school socialite he was. It wasn’t uncommon for him to greet and be greeted by people in the hallways, because for all his self-absorbed tendencies, Oikawa was an excellent mixer who could remember names and faces with startling clarity.

Takahiro smacked a hand against his forehead, brow furrowed. “Well,” he said, then paused, thinking. “I...don’t think it matters if he knows it’s a set-up actually. All we need to get him to realize is that he likes Iwaizumi, right?”

“Mhm.” Issei nodded, accepting his and Takahiro’s drinks from the barista with a quick thanks. Takahiro took his proffered tea thoughtfully.

“So if he thinks the confession is an act, maybe he won’t hit my friends? And we can all explain afterwards. Hopefully.” Takahiro punched his straw through the film on his cup before drinking deeply.

Issei followed suit. “Iwaizumi _is_ more willing to forgive than Oikawa is.”

“Yeah. Let’s pray he stays that way.” Takahiro turned to the back corner of the shop, where a glass door led to the patio area populated by painted metal furniture and colorful umbrellas, enclosed by a potted hedge. Their favorite table lay tucked away there, hidden from the street and the shop, where they could have their privacy as a couple. They rounded a corner marked by a decorative flower bush, and Takahiro froze.

Usually, because it was so out-of-the-way, they had it all to themselves. But _this_ time, it was occupied by a pair Takahiro and Issei knew all too well.

Ushijima Wakatoshi and Satori Tendou, players from their rival team—one that they had suffered far too many defeats at the hands of—Shiratorizawa.

Tendou was laughing, as he was wont to do, gesturing expansively with long fingers and arms flung wide as he talked, with his distinctive brand of teetering grace. Ushijima looked on, his face arranged in an expression Takahiro had never seen from him, something fond, almost like... _affection_. Takahiro’s eyes widened, and he yanked Issei down to kneel next to him, shoes scraping on the patterned brick, as he dove behind the cover of the flowers. Cautiously, he poked his head out to observe, breathing rapidly and his drink slopping in the cup clutched in his hand. 

One of Ushijima’s hands was wrapped loosely around his cup, his drink half-finished, but his _other_ hand was resting on Tendou’s thigh, stroking gentle circles on the inside of it with his thumb. The look in his eyes, the position of his hand, Tendou’s obvious comfort with the arrangement… 

“Holy shit!” Takahiro hissed.

“Are they _dating_?” Issei’s whisper was shrill with incredulity.

Then, almost to Takahiro’s disbelief, Ushijima leaned in close to Tendou and whispered _something_ that made Tendou blush almost as red as his hair. Tendou responded by tilting his face up to Ushijima, and then they were _kissing_ , the motion of their lips familiar to one another. Tendou lifted his hands, threading his fingers gently through Ushijima’s hair, and Ushijima’s hand crawled farther up Tendou’s thigh, to a position Takahiro would call _indecent for a public place_. They broke apart, Tendou giggling. Ushijima abandoned his drink, that hand moving to Tendou’s waist as he leaned in for another kiss, as if Ushijima was on the verge of pulling him into his lap. They were, without a shadow of a doubt, a _couple_.

And, like the flip of a switch, a new scheme was brewing in Takahiro’s mind.

“New plan, Issei,” Takahiro said, digging his phone from his pocket and snapping a picture of the “rival” couple. “We need to get back to Oikawa _now_.”


	4. Oikawa Tooru

Tooru slumped back in the chair at his desk, frustrated. Usually, his physics homework was enough to occupy his mind, but he just couldn’t focus. There was too much noise—around him and caused by the turmoil in his mind.

The cooling breeze wafting through his open window kept rustling the posters and travel flyers pinned up on the cork board above his desk, of Argentinian beaches lapping against clear blue sea and of depictions of the opportunities he could pursue there, smiling men in sleeveless jerseys that spoke the same language Tooru did: volleyball. It was everything he had ever dreamed of...but if that cork board represented his future, Tooru would have to take down the pictures of himself and _Iwa-chan_. Somehow, some way, Tooru was going to have to leave him behind.

Tooru stood from his chair and reached up, plucking the pin from a picture from when they were first years, two years earlier. It was a team picture, taken outside the gym, right before their last tournament of the season. He and Iwaizumi were in the bottom left corner, a younger Tooru flashing a peace sign and Iwaizumi’s signature scowl softened by cheeks that hadn’t yet lost their baby fat. In that moment, they had been unstoppable, promising to stay by each other’s sides forever.

But, Tooru supposed, as bitter bile rose in his throat, _he_ had been the one to break that promise. He had chosen Argentina and volleyball over Iwaizumi, and even as graduation and his departure drew ever closer, bearing down on the horizon, Tooru wasn’t brave enough to tell Iwaizumi he _loved_ him.

There wasn’t a point, not _really_. Not when Tooru knew Iwaizumi didn’t want him like _that_. It was so blatantly _obvious_ —Tooru, while too cowed by the prospect of losing Iwaizumi entirely to confess, had grossly exaggerated any flirtatious behavior around him lately in an attempt to perhaps spark _some_ kind of reaction. He had tried everything—walking around in the locker room with only a towel hanging low on his hips, fluttering his eyelashes, even giving Iwaizumi _bedroom eyes_ in the middle of the cafeteria—and it was all for _nothing_.

Tooru gripped the picture, crumpling the edge between his fingers, his throat tight. He screwed his face up viciously against the hot tears gathering in his eyes and blurring his vision. “Maybe I’ve been chasing you for too long, Iwa-chan. Maybe it’s time to let—”

“OIKAWAAAAAAA!” Tooru spun around, all the dissatisfaction he had finally allowed to come to a head replaced with surprise. _Someone_ was screaming his name. “OIKAWAAAAAAAAAAA!” The voice came again and Tooru rushed to his open window, leaning out and whipping his head back and forth. He searched the street, heart hammering, until he saw Makki and Mattsun running down the street, waving their arms and yelling like absolute madmen.

Tooru had known the pair for a _while_ now—he was used to what their coach termed “ _shenanigans_ ”: pranks, jokes, and outright stupidity, but Tooru had never had them come sprinting down his street, howling his name. He stood, stunned, at his bedroom window as they vaulted the low wall separating the yard from the street, finally coming to a stop, breathing heavily and doubled over, in front of him.

“What the hell was that?” Tooru waved the picture still clutched in his hand, irritation bubbling up. “Since when do you come sprinting down my street, screaming for me like I’ve stolen the Mona Lisa?!”

“Since—” Makki fumbled with his phone as Mattsun straightened up.

“Since we saw something at the boba shop we think you should see,” Mattsun clarified. Tooru suddenly found Makki’s cracked phone screen only centimeters from his face. On it was an image—Tooru recognized the metal patio furniture of Makki and Mattsun’s favorite boba place, with its telltale high hedge, but the people at the table…

Tooru snatched the phone from Makki’s hand, a flood of emotions making his heart race; anger, jealousy, envy, all crashing together. “Is that _Ushiwaka_?! _Kissing_ Tendou?!”

“Yeah!” Makki’s grin curled with smugness, but Tooru didn’t notice. “Ushiwaka got a boyfriend before _you_ did, Oikawa.”

Hot-headed rivalry blazed in Tooru’s chest, boiling his blood and lighting aflame a desire, a _need_ , to not be outdone. It was the furthest thing from rational, but spite’s a funny thing—it makes reservations fly out the window, leaving only fiery brashness in its place.

“This is _unacceptable_! I won’t let Ushiwaka _do_ this to me! I won’t sit by while he kisses his little boyfriend with his stupid, smug face and gets everything he wants when I _don’t_ ,” Tooru spat.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Mattsun smirked, and, too late, Tooru recognized they were purposefully riling him up—but he didn’t much care. He had made up his mind. “Iwaizumi’s just down the street.”

Leaving the picture fluttering to the floor behind him, a memory and nothing more, Tooru leaped from his window, slippers on his feet. His future may lay in Argentina, but his best friend, his partner, the one that grounded him when he flew too close to the sun, was three houses down on the corner, in the house on a yard with a tree shading the porch swing, two young boys’ initials carved into the trunk, where Tooru split his time growing up. 

There, love was seeded as friendship, teaching Tooru fear and rivalry, yet courage and compromise, alongside a boy who would bridge the gap between them. Really, it was only natural that he grow from a boy too scared of losing his closest friend to a young man confessing a love he harbored in secret for so long there. It was only natural an old relationship would start anew where its roots were anchored.

Too many memories of times Tooru wished he had said what was on the tip of his tongue flashed through his mind as he ran, feet beating the sidewalk through the thin soles of his slippers and vaguely aware of Makki and Mattsun chasing after him. They stretched back to the first time Tooru truly understood what devotion to a person meant—they hadn’t been children anymore, but they weren’t yet mature. Perhaps they would never be. Perhaps that would leave them room to keep growing forever.

Tooru reached Iwaizumi’s house, heart hammering in his throat and threw the door open, ignoring the startled cry of Iwaizumi’s mother. Instead of calling out, he wove through halls marked with childhood nostalgia, until he halted in front of a closed door.

Iwaizumi’s door.

The handle was magnetic, a lodestone in its own right, and Tooru’s shaking hand was iron, inextricably attracted to it. The laws of nature, all the governing physics of the universe, wrapped Tooru’s fingers around the handle.

But Tooru hesitated.

To turn the handle, to pour his aching heart out for Iwaizumi, _that_ was a choice there was no coming back from. Maybe Iwaizumi would let Tooru down gently. Maybe he would let his face twist unbidden in disgust. Maybe he would tell him to get out and never show his face again. 

...maybe he would welcome Tooru with open arms into his heart. Tooru swallowed thickly. He would never know unless he _tried_. 

With a breath, Tooru cranked the handle, letting the door swing open, revealing Iwaizumi, sitting on his bed, a textbook in his lap and eyes widening with alarm.

“Oikawa?! What the hell are you do—”

“Shut up! Iwa-chan, I need you to listen to me.” Iwaizumi clamped his mouth shut, eyes blazing. “You know I’ve made up my mind on going to Argentina, and you know I won’t let anyone keep me from that. But,” the look in Iwaizumi’s eyes shifted to that of confusion, but Tooru squared his shoulders. He knew his path—and he knew all paths become treacherous before the destination came into view. “But I know where my heart belongs. It’s not in Argentina, Hajime, it’s with you. I love you.”

Iwaizumi stared at Tooru, and the silence was deafening. He could hear the blood in his ears, like the wash of the ocean in South America, and Tooru was terrified. Iwaizumi, motionless on his bed, opened his mouth.

Then closed it. 

Tooru’s stomach dropped. He had stepped wrong, and the path had given out under him. He had taken the leap of faith, but now he was falling, nothing to catch him. His friendship was doomed, his heart was doomed, _he_ was doomed.

Iwaizumi closed the book in his lap. “Oikawa, you idiot, I’ve been in love with you for _years_.”

Of all the things Tooru had been prepared for, _that_ wasn’t one of them. His mouth fell open. “ _Years?!_ And you never _said_ anything?!”

Iwaizumi stood, his face taking on a familiar expression. “Hey! You were off having girlfriends and fan clubs, how was I supposed to know?”

“I was trying to—” Tooru threw his hands in the air, past frustrations flaring all at once, “Ugh, I don’t know, make you jealous so maybe you’d _notice?!_ ”

“Well, obviously that wasn’t your _best_ plan,” Iwaizumi said, but his usual scowl didn’t hold so much mock animosity as it had in the past. In fact, there was fondness showing through, making that scowl difficult to maintain. He crossed the room, only coming to a stop when he reached Tooru, standing close enough to lay his hands on Tooru’s waist, their giddy heartbeats matching pace.

“So we’re both idiots, fine! Just _kiss_ me, Hajime,” Tooru commanded, draping his arms over his shoulders. And when _his_ Hajime’s lips crashed into his own, like waves on the beach, Tooru knew, despite all his fears and doubts, he had been right to take that gamble, because kissing Hajime felt like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> We're gonna experiment a lil bit and put my twitter link down here too...
> 
> Find me on Twitter at [@vetashad](https://twitter.com/vetashad)
> 
> I'd be SO grateful if you commented, shared/rt'ed, OR (omg) if you considered (OMG) donating to my Ko-fi!!! (I'll probably cry if you did that /pos)
> 
> You’ll find all of that ^^^ by clicking my twitter link
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!!


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